Michael woke to a world of spinning ceiling tiles and glaring white.

He winced away from the image, but he could still feel the room rotating beneath him, making him sick to his stomach. If the world didn't stop turning soon, he was going to unceremoniously vomit all over these pretty white tiles.

"You're awake. Good."

Michael knew that voice. It made him even more ill.

"Ms. Topolsky?" he groaned, forcing one eye open and looking up from his fetal position on the floor. "What the...Where am I?"

The blonde woman-- towering over him in black suede pumps and a tailored pants-suit that made her stand out like a devil in heaven-- smiled. "You don't need to know that, Michael," she said quietly, as if speaking to a two-year old.

"I kinda think it's important," he moaned, trying to force himself onto his knees. He failed, and fell back to the floor, sucking in a breath.

Topolsky chuckled, and he could sense her squatting down in front of him. "Feeling a little sick, are we?" Michael didn't favor her with a response, and she must not have expected one, because she continued without a pause. "That would be a side affect of the anesthesia. Something to do with alien physiology." Through his slitted eyes, he could see her smirk. "Oops."

"Alien physiology?" he muttered through gritted teeth. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Topolsky's eyes turned cold, and she reached out to grab him by the shirt collar. "Don't play games with me," she snarled. "I know damn well about you and your friends. I know EVERYTHING about you." Her fingers curled tighter, restricting his airflow. "How to make you talk, how to make you scream; how to make you wish you'd burned in that damned ship when it crashlanded in '47." She leaned in close, and Michael could smell the Vanilla Fields perfume that drifted around her. Nothing had ever smelled so foul. "I could kill you in a heartbeat," she hissed. "Don't give me a reason."

"I don't...know what you're...talking about!" he gasped.

Topolsky released him and stood abruptly, leaving Michael sucking in air on the floor. "SLIDES!" she shouted to no one in particular, and suddenly, the walls were covered in cells.

Michael could barely make them out through his nausea-blurred vision, but there was no mistaking the tell-tale green, squared-off circles. He felt his stomach turn to water.

Topolsky eyed him, smirking. "Look familiar?" she asked. "I must admit, it was interesting, finally having the proof we'd wanted for so long. I didn't know QUITE what to expect, but this was a VERY happy surprise. I had expected something a bit less blatant. But this will do." She leaned down again, and sneered at him. "Ain't genetics a bitch?"

"No. I think that term's reserved for you, Topolsky," Michael growled, hoping the anger gnawing at his belly would overcome the nausea that still lingered there.

He instantly regretted his outburst when her smirk faded, replaced by a scowl. "You kids blew my cover," she hissed. "You ruined my assignment, and sent me back to the FBI in disgrace. My...boss doesn't like his agents to be disgraced. It reflects badly on him." She reached out a hand, and traced her finger down Michael's face, from temple to chin. He winced as her nail dug into his skin, causing a long red welt. "So desperate times called for desperate measures," she continued, almost absently, eyes focused on the path she had marked along his cheek.

When she came back to lucidity, her eyes flashed. "They can't report you missing," she said coldly, "because it's too risky. No one at the school will notice your absence-- as if you're ever there anyway. And that drunk foster father of your's won't care one way or the other, so long as his check comes every month. And we'll be sure that continues to happen." Topolsky's eyes glinted as she straightened again. "So it's you and me, sweetie-pie. Won't we have fun?"

"Go to Hell, Topolsky," he moaned.

"You first," she replied. Turning, she started to walk away, but seemed to think better of it, and spun around again. "And this is for blowing my cover," she growled. Drawing back her foot, she delivered a kick to his tender stomach with the pointed toe of her shoe.

Michael lost it. Any control he'd had over his nausea hit the road when her foot made impact. He felt the bile rise uncontrollably in his throat, and then it exploded from his mouth, covering the impeccable white tile with the remains of the measly dinner he'd eaten hours-- days? months?-- earlier.

Topolsky glanced down at him, where he lay panting at her feet, and then looked to her suede pumps, now ruined by his vomit. "Tsk, tsk," she scolded, back to her motherly routine. "Doesn't Michael know it's not nice to do things like that?" She extended her foot and wiped off some of his sickness on his t-shirt, making him moan in response. "We'll just have to make sure you learn that lesson, now won't we?" She raised one eyebrow, then turned and left the room, through some door Michael couldn't begin to locate had he tried.